Soul Stealing from the Back of a Motorbike - My New Weekend Pastime

Last weekend was like something out of a dream: I was on the back of a motorbike, on a dirt road, driving along the coast of West Africa. Unbelievable. Even more unbelievable is that fact that I actually took some photos! I know, I know. Very hard to believe, but I did. And I attribute this strange occurrence to the motorbike. Yes, things are getting very strange indeed. First, I was on a motorbike (remember, this is conservative me we're talking about), and now, I'm saying it was fantastic and is the sole reason for the photos you're about to see. Let me explain.

Benin is not an easy place to take photos. People are everywhere, all the time. Don't get me wrong, I love photos with people in them and you'd be hard-pressed to find a more photogenic people than the Beninese (especially the kids!), but let's not forget, this is voodoo country. You take someone's photo, you've stolen their sole. Luckily, most Beninese people will happily sell their camera-loving soul for a few francs; however, you do run the risk of running into the few who would rather throw a temper-tantrum and shout at you in Fon (local language here) than squeeze you for your pocket change. I guess their souls are worth more to them. Just the sight of your camera sends some people off; you don't even have time to ask them for permission. So needless to say, I'm not too keen on whipping out the camera.

Also, this means that you have to ask everyone in the general vicinity before you take a photo which draws additional attention to yourself and makes it virtually impossible to get those precious candid shots. The whole thing adds up to a less than ideal photo taking experience. You aren't going to be walking the streets of Benin with your fanny pack and your camera hanging around your neck.

I've tried taking photos from inside the car, but it's hard to get a nice picture through a dirty window. To top it off, the crowded, poorly maintained streets combined with the car's large size rule out any stealthy get-aways if someone decides to pull a crazy. Actually, you'd probably be better off on foot. At least then you could run for it.

So this weekend on the motorbike was a real treat. I could pull out T's camera phone (already much easier to disguise than my Sony Cyber-shot) and steal a photo (or a soul) on the run. And I did. And at the risk of being excessive, I've posted most of my shots here, not because I'm proud of them as photos, but because I'm proud that I finally managed to take them.

Let's start with the beach. Can you believe I actually live here? 20 minutes on a motorbike and I'm swimming in this ocean? No, neither can I.

But here's my proof :-) Obviously, I can't take credit for taking this photo.

See, T was there too, looking naturally contemplative in a sort of James Dean kind of way...

And this is how we got there, and why I am able to post these photos here... Can you tell I love the motorbike? Who would have ever thought! I think I might have to get my own now :-) That green and yellow jalopy behind it is a taxi cab. I think we've got the better ride, don't you?

This is the road that takes you to the beach. Yeah, I know it's boring, but that's what people do. They take pictures and then make other people look at them. I'm sorry. I can't be expected to break tradition.

And these are some of the things that got in our way and slowed us down... First, cows complete with herder. (Ah! There's the beef, Gondul!)

And then fishermen carting a giant net.

I wonder if this is their boat?

It could be anybody's boat really. There are lots of little communities of people living all along the coast, though they may be sparse communities compared to the hustle and bustle of Cotonou.

So sparse that this old restaurant/bar looks very out-of-business indeed. But I guess it was probably meant for Yovos anyway.

That's it folks. Slide show is over. You are free. Thanks for watching. Come again.

Motorbike Madness: Mr. T's New Toy

Look what T brought home last night!

Meet the Suzuki DR 650, or, as I call it, the new toy. As you can tell, we're still waiting on a snappy, personalised name; T says he can't name it until he "first knows it's personality..."

And that's the plan for the weekend - to get to know it's personality. I think the idea is to first go to the beach, then maybe head on to Ouidah, but I wouldn't be surprised if we made it all the way to Grand Popo. If only we had the visas, we'd probably go to Lomé (in neighbouring Togo, in case you were wondering).

Anyway, it's official now: we're the coolest cats in town.

Expat Africa: At the Benin Marina Hotel

Sitting by the pool under a palm tree, on a cloudless day, cooled by the ocean breeze, you can't help but think, This is the life. And it is.

In a country where a person is lucky to earn more than $1000 a year, a $200 night stay at Cotonou's Benin Marina Hotel is, generally speaking, more than just a special weekend getaway; it's an impossibility - but for the expats living here the hotel is a weekend hot-spot.

For a surprisingly reasonable annual fee when compared to the room prices (though still much more than the average Beninese could afford), you get access to the most beautiful pool in the country, a small handful of tennis courts and a few other hotel facilities. In addition, circling the hotel is the most compact 9-hole golf course you could ever imagine, saved from it's size only by the fact that it's probably the lone golf course in the country.

Weekends are busy. As long as it's not raining, the kiddie pool is teeming with toddlers; the large, circular, adult pool is overrun by unruly pre-teens; and parents chase their children with bottles of sunscreen. When you arrive at the pool you flash your membership card and you're escorted to the umbrella of your choice (if there are any left to choose from) where you're given a fresh towel and a cushion for your chair. You can buy crêpes, ice cream and cocktails. You can even get a green coconut with a straw inserted for drinking the juice. Every Friday night the hotel hosts a themed buffet dinner by the pool for the outrageous sum of 14500 CFA (~ $30) per person.



For me, the Benin Marina is a great place to swim laps. The pool is round, but on weekday mornings it's deserted and you can swim along the buoy line that floats the diameter. I slather on sunscreen, put on my swimsuit, pack my beach bag, and trot down the "Marina road" to the pool. In less than 10 minutes, I'm in the water. On my way home, I give the same guards I passed earlier another round of hellos, this time with wet hair and goggle-marked, raccoon eyes.

On the weekends, the Marina stands in for the garden T and I don't have. When we're too lazy to drive all the way to the beach we walk to the Marina with our books and bottled water and precede to get sunburned. Once, I tried to write my thesis by the pool, but even under the shadiest umbrella the glare from the sun made it difficult to see the words on my laptop screen and I didn't end up working on much more than my tan.

As much as I'm thankful to have the Marina so close, I always feel as though I've sneaked into someplace I'm not supposed to be when I'm there - like it's a secret club and I'm only pretending to be a member. The excess of such surroundings, of the African expat life in general, is something I'll never quite get used to and somehow I feel thankful for that. A strange mix of awe and guilt sets in as you admire your surroundings and realize how lucky you are. Outside the Marina, construction workers toil in the heat, mixing cement and digging foundations to build government-funded housing units for politicians visiting Benin during an international African conference next year. A little further down the road, children walk through rows of vegetables with metal watering cans that are probably twice their weight. Polio victims hobble between parked cars at traffic lights, tapping on windows for a spare franc. As you float in that giant pool, you know there are people in the north dying from drinking dirty water.

Once, someone asked me if it wasn't hard to live with poverty right outside my door. To be honest, yes, it is. But the reality is that poverty has always been right there, it's just harder to ignore when you're in a place like Benin. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe everyone who's ever been lucky enough to float in a pool ought to be forced to witness real poverty first-hand. Maybe then at least we would finally realize just how fortunate we really are.

Random Fact

If I could get away with it, I'd probably live off of nothing but chocolate.

Alas, I cannot.

A Cyberspace Update

Apologies to all those fond of pretty fonts and graphics, but it felt like time for something simpler. Welcome to the new wickedsure, streamlined and straightforward (if only regarding the template).

In other news, those craving a second opinion on life in Africa and/or merely curious about the thoughts and fancies of the mysterious man known on wickedsure as T, can check out his blog in its new, more accessible location by clicking on the link labelled "Mr. T" in my list of "wicked awesome weblogs". Read it; you won't be sorry!

Ghosts and Robbers

There haven't been many blogs lately because my life hasn't been too exciting. I've either had my nose in a book or my fingers on the keyboard in an attempt to see my silly little thesis finished. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way I've gotten rather attached to it. It's gone from a silly little thesis to something much greater in my meagre intellectual consciousness, as though it's taken on a life of its own and I want to see it grow up big and strong. Now, I haven't reached the point of total anthropomorphism by naming my thesis as kimananda did and I hope I never will - I don't have her gift for schedule and balance and would end up a total hermit - but I do feel invested in a way that I wasn't expecting. A curious development indeed.

But even more curious is that the old interest in academic inquiry, particularly philosophical inquiry, is stirring its head. There I was thinking that I was done with all those useless intellectual pursuits only to find myself being drawn to the old staples again. A sudden desire to re-read Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Kant, Wittgenstein, Zizek - all the old favourites - has caught me off-guard. And then I've continued to shock myself by seeking out the classics that slipped through the cracks of my past education. I've even browsed through Amazon's catalogue for new works of interest. My Amazon wish-list would fill a small, but respectable, library.

What has happened to me? I look back at the last few years and realize that I've been saying one thing and yet doing another. I said I was tired of theory; I wanted more focus on practice. I was tired of academics; education was over-rated and out of touch. But what have I done? I've created a monster of a thesis topic steeped in theory. And not just any theory. The theories I thought I'd put away for good, the ghosts of my past. I realize now that no matter what I say, or how far I run from academic institutions where we first met, my ghosts will always follow me, forever faithful friends, as dependable as one's shadow. And I've come to accept that no matter what I may say by day, when night begins to fall I will always leave the light on for them.

Now that's a metaphorical light, that is, because I don't sleep with the light on. I'm not afraid of the dark and I never have been. I'm afraid of the night. Because it's night when the robbers, murderers, and general evil-doers go creeping around your house. And I should know, I watched enough episodes of Unsolved Mysterious as a kid to be an expert in the matter. Boy, did I love that show. And if that wasn't enough I had Rescue 911 to drive home the gore.

The result of all this television violence - the original reality TV - was that I used to sleep with my windows shut and locked, laying so that I faced the door (also shut and locked), with three or four blankets pulled up over my shoulders for protection, even in the dead heat and humidity of mid-summer. And I didn't want the fan running because then I wouldn't be able to hear the footsteps sneaking up on me. There were never monsters under my bed, only robbers and serial killers outside my window and - you guessed it - spiders crawling on my ceiling (some things never change...).

But the point of all this, actually the point of this entire post, was to relate a little story about what was, for me, a terrifying occurrence last weekend. It happened late Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, depending on how you look at it. I was all alone in the flat because T was in Paris for the weekend taking a psychology exam so that he can add a B.A. in psychology to his already long list of degrees and become the single most over-educated person I know.

So I was all alone when I woke up around 6.00 in the morning to a chorus of footsteps, muffled voices and squeaking doors. It was still very dark outside, but the hard rain and strong winds that had beat against the window only hours before had ceased. After such a storm, the most intense storm I have seen here yet, the stillness and silence outside was eerie. And it was even eerier when contrasted to the very human noises echoing through the room. Yes, echoing. We have almost nothing on any of our walls; all the floors are cold tile; furniture is sparse; we live in an echo-box. So I couldn't tell where the sound was coming from. Was it from our new neighbours, just moved in above us? Or was it coming from inside the flat? - our flat, the flat I was currently occupying all alone...

As I sat there, still as stone, listening for every step, bump and creek, I thought about the stubborn lock on the balcony door and the guards that were quite positively asleep outside. And I thought about a story I'd recently heard. A story about some people sleeping in a house in our neighbourhood, just a couple of weeks ago, who were beaten up by startled burglars. The rumour goes that they were still in their bed when the robber's bat came down upon them. So I was scared, really scared.

I summoned up some courage, from where, I have no idea . But I was going to get out of bed, take the flash-light from the night-stand, and investigate. No sooner had I pulled the mosquito net back than I went straight from scared to literally petrified.

Something liquid had splashed on me - on my t-shirt, on my arm, on my face. Liquid, an unidentified liquid of unidentified origin, was in my bedroom, in my bed, on me. Instantly, I thought of blood. A severed horse's head, dripping above me or an injured robber gushing blood from a wound as he readied to pounce. Then I noticed the net was soaked, dripping wet... dripping with blood! And I saw the same severed horse's head only now placed under the bed instead of above, the same robber but now crawling my direction on hands and knees through a puddle of blood. Or maybe it was a corpse - a neighbour? - chopped to pieces on the floor.

It is astonishing how many thoughts one can hold in one's head in a single terrified moment. Somehow, part of my brain must have been working on convincing myself to turn on the light, because, as I thought these things, I reached over and flicked on the light hardly realizing what I was doing.

It was nothing but water. The hard rain had been too much for the bedroom window. Water had leaked through a gape in the frame, leaving the shadow of a large stream on the wall and a miniture lake on the floor as evidence.

My subsequent stealthy dash through the apartment was based on equally fantastic fears. The noise was only our neighbours above who must have invited the whole safari home from the clubs instead of just the usual mere herd of elephants. Boy did I feel ridiculous. Clearly a classic case of too much Unsolved Mysteries as a child, and perhaps a recent viewing of The Godfather had an influence as well...

So that's it. That's the most exciting thing that's happened to me in awhile. There you have it: theoretical ghosts and phantom robbers.

Gloworms and Fireflies

I remember thinking, as a kid, that fireflies didn't look much like fire at all. And the name lightening bug didn't really fit either as I had seen just about as much green lightening in my life as I had green fire. The thing is, in New England, or at least in New Hampshire, fireflies cast off a pale greenish-yellow glow, not a
fiery-red spark, or a white-lightening flash, so neither name ever made much sense to me.

Sure, maybe "glow-worm" would have fit a little better, but for one thing, a fly is not a worm and even at that tender age you would have had a hard time convincing me otherwise. Secondly, after the 1982 introduction of our cuddly friend to the left, the Gloworm (his face lights up when you hug him!), I'm not sure anyone can say "glow-worm" now with a straight face - at least not anyone from my generation. (For the record, I never had a gloworm of my own. That was an honour reserved for the middle child.) So I was stuck with the term "firefly".

Tonight, though, I finally discovered the fire in the fly. I was lingering around the barn, waiting for the woman who would drive me home to finish discussing stable business around the wooden table that is the barn's sitting place. Fifteen minutes earlier the sun had just started to brush the horizon. Now, in its place, was a full moon. One of the stable hands brought out an oil lantern to light the table. The rest of the barn had only the moonlight. I stood in the middle, away from the table, and watched the horses chew their dinner. A stable is never so quiet as it is at dinner time. And then I saw it- a little spark of fire in the air, just above the ground. For the briefest second, I looked around for the fire, confused. I was certain I had seen a piece of ash, still red hot, floating through the air. In that instant, all the campfires of my childhood had come rushing back and I expected to see a troop of girl scouts at my feet. You see, it had even moved like ash.

But it wasn't ash, and in the next moment I knew it wasn't, because in the next moment that first little spark became a sea of little sparks throughout the stable, and yet the horses weren't whinnying, breaking down their gates, or running for the hills. It couldn't be fire. And then I realised, it was African fireflies.

Okay, I take it back. I take it all back!

Forget everything I said about the insecticide spray. It's lovely. It's wonderful. It's the best thing since sliced bread. It's a lean, mean killing machine and it saved me from the most hideous, monstrous, gigantic spider I have seen in a very, very long time. And for that I am forever grateful. Oh, and by the way... Yes T, spiders CAN jump. If only you had been here to see it in action, then it would have been you it jumped at and not me!

Will It Never End?

I just opened my laptop for the first time in months (I usually use T's) to get some old files I needed and it is covered in mold! Mold, everywhere, mold! How am I supposed to clean this! Will it never end?

This Is War!

We've been attacked!... by mold. There is mold everywhere - inside the kitchen cabinets, in the closets, on our shoes, growing on our clothes. Yuk! This whole place has smelled musty from day one, particularly the kitchen, but it's easy to ignore such things when you know that closer inspection will only bring unwelcomed news. So the mold made a major mistake when it decided to make an open attack on our clothes. There was a problem and we couldn't deny it any more. I had no choice but to declare war immediately.

The wardrobe was the first casualty. It is now a wardrobe skeleton, with no back panel or doors. All the clothes went straight into the wash and the closets and cupboards were doused with bleach. But this is going to be a on-going battle. Cotonou is extremely humid and consistently warm. It's paradise for mold. Even with the air conditioners running it's always damp and I'm finding mold in new places. Just yesterday I opened the night-stand to discover that the outside of my passport was fuzzy. My passport! I can't exactly soak that in bleach!

But it's not just mold that plagues our Cotonou residence. There are the ants. Tiny little reddish-brown ants by the thousands that go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah! On Monday the apartment was fumigated with insecticide to kill all the bugs hoping to infest our home. By that evening, the ants were back, marching in their little single file lines across the kitchen counter. I think the only living thing that suffered from the fumes was me.

Next, we have the rain. Apparently the late summer dry season lasts less than a month because we're back into the rain again (which probably isn't helping us with the mold situation). Whenever it rains the patio around our building becomes completely flooded and we have to use cinder blocks as stepping stones to get in and out of the front gate. We've got it pretty easy though. Many homes are under water and I've meet at least two Beninese who have had to move because of the flooding. If you've been paying attention to the world news you've probably noticed that massive flooding is widespread in Africa at the moment, especially for our neighbours in Togo and Ghana. Niger and Burkina Faso have also been hit hard. Benin is swamped and has been all summer but according to the BBC news maps of worst affected areas, Benin is one of the only West African countries not in (or almost in) a state of emergency. I can only imagine what it must be like for those around us. A Sunday afternoon drive around the Beninese countryside makes our flooded patio seem like a blessing. Next time I'll bring my camera and try to get some photos.

And then, of course, there are the mosquitoes, which all this standing water isn't helping with either. But we have our defences...

First, there's the trusty mosquito net. This usually works, though sometimes we wake up to find a mosquito in the net. Oh, how irritating! The net is supposed to keep them out, not trap them inside. I think it would would probably work better if we were able to tuck the edges of the net underneath the mattress, but T is too big! His feet stick out over the end of the bed! At least this makes it easier to get in and out of bed in the middle of the night. When you've got to go, you've got to go and trust me, you don't want to be stuck in a net.

Next, there are the bug sprays. I brought my deep-woods-New Hampshire knowledge to this one. We've got Avon Skin So Soft for the low-mosquito evenings when we don't feel like coating ourselves in DEET and showering when we get home. And then there's the high-DEET super spray for the long haul nights outside.

For a long time T was a fan of this insecticide spray. I think he liked that he could chase a mosquito down with the can and watch it meet its end. There was a huge stock of this in the apartment when we moved in. I hate this stuff. It gives me a massive headache. Luckily, we don't need to use it much any more because we've found something better...

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The plug-in, electronic mosquito destroyer. Plug it in at night with a fresh insecticide tablet and you've got up to 12 mosquito free hours. It even smells nice. And the best part, no headaches.

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And last, but certainly not least, is my personal favourite, the POWER RECHARGEABLE MOSQUITO-HITTINGRACKET! All I have to say is Thank you China! A curse upon all those that say you can't innovate, that you only produce cheap knock-off's and total junk. They have clearly never encountered the glory that is the power rechargeable mosquito-hittingracket.

This beauty plugs directly into the wall (with an American prong no less) to charge its internal battery. The instructions indicate that the battery can be recharged over 200 times. It's been two months and we've only charged it once and it's still going strong! Why does it need to be charged? Because the metal strings of the racket are electrified. Yes, you electrocute mosquitoes. You dance around your house swinging and swatting your beautiful racket, sending the little buggers to their the doom with a little spark and a satisfying crackle. This is my new, all-time favourite pastime here in Africa - mosquito hunting. I'm thinking of sending one to everybody for Christmas.

Where did you come from, where did you go?

The street people are gone. They packed up and left. Gone. Just like that.

The dirt road in front of our house is empty - empty but for a few heaps of trash still burning, the only evidence they left behind. Foul-smelling smoke permeates the neighbourhood and forces our windows shut. Even then I can still smell it.

I might not have noticed at all if it wasn't for the smoke. I don't usually walk that way and they moved so quickly. It must have been less than a week before they had disessembled their shabby homes, burned everything, and disappeared. Where did they go? And why? Did the children get to bring their toys? The tires the boys raced, where are they? Burned? Or rolling down another street, someone else's street?

But for that matter, where did they come from? Who were these street people? I never really knew. There is so little I know about this place - this country - its people. They were my reminder of all that I didn't and still don't know. Now their absence is my reminder. I miss them already.

On your mark, get set, go!

T and I have a little race going. The big question: who will get malaria first? A morbid game, I know, but in our situation it isn't a question of if we'll get malaria; it's a question of when.

"Wait, what?" you ask. Well, in case you were unaware, Benin is a hotbed for the little parasites that cause malaria and the mosquitoes that spread them. To top it off, we stopped taking the anti-malarial pills we were using a few weeks ago. We're on our own now, without any form of protection. So why did we stop taking the drugs? Simple, the one we were taking costs around $5 a pill and isn't recommended for use beyond three months. There are other pills, sure, but they also aren't meant for long term use and come with a heavy list of possible side effects. And not just an upset stomach. Well, there's that too, but also central nervous system damage, vivid dreams and - get this - suicide. Yeah, so no thanks. I'd rather have malaria.

And so we've accepted our fate and made a game out of it. Unfortunately, we haven't got all the rules sorted out just yet. For example, who wins? The person who gets malaria first, or the one who stays healthy the longest? Of course the first person who reaches the finish line first wins, right? But do we really want to encourage ourselves to get malaria? Hmm.... Getting malaria first does come with serious bragging rights, but then again, you've got malaria. So should the prize go to the one who needs comforting in their time of illness? Or should it go to the one who managed to stay healthy and now has to put up with all the "I don't feel good" whining? Tough questions.

But in the meantime the race continues. T takes the lead for sheer anticipation, but then again, I woke up the other day with three bites to the face. Three direct hits, courtesy of a mosquito that found its way past the bed-net. I don't know, folks. This is going to be a close one.

In Wonderland

It's been more than a month and a half now since we arrived in Africa and I realise that I've lost a surprising amount of any sense of "normality" I once had.

This life - the one in which I look different from everyone else; in which even 5-year-olds are capable of pounding out complicated rhythms on drums and dancing in ways that would make church ladies uncomfortable; in which I regularly stop the car to let goats and chickens cross the street; in which I instinctively hold my breath as mopeds spewing blue exhaust whiz past me on my morning run; in which old men and young boys walk down the street wielding machetes; in which I look through the bars of the livg room window to watch little boys race tires through puddles with sticks; in which voodoo is regarded as fact; in which nothing is quite as it first appears- this life, has become normal. And as a result, I'm finding it more and more difficult to describe Africa.

I've never been able to keep a journal - in part because my sisters could sniff one out and pick the lock in minutes, and in part because I could never bring myself to scribble nonsense in the blank pages of a beautiful book. It's the same with this blog. Nothing seems worthy of broadcasting to the world. It's all too mundane and typical, even if I know it's not.

And so it begins to feel like a chore - keeping this blog up to date - , but a chore for which I am most thankful. Without it, I wouldn't be forced to reflect, I wouldn't be forced to remember. I am Alice, and this is my Wonderland.

Free as a Bird... with a Broken Wing.

Until very recently, I've had the worst time creating a mental map of Cotonou. This is particularly painful when you consider that city maps are hard to come by - so hard to come by we haven't managed to get one yet- and that there aren't any street names posted on the roads. As a result, I might have been to a particular shop or restaurant 3 or 4 times and still be unable to find it again. There was no point in trying to give me directions because I couldn't get to the landmarks you were naming. And when it came to remembering those names later, I was hopeless as I couldn't even repeat the French when I was hearing it at the time. Until I've navigated a city on my own - by foot, bicycle, car, etc. - I never get the hang of it.

Totally relying on other expats to either drive me around or give directions to the company driver, I wasn't feeling very independent or free. But the prospect of hopping into the company car and driving off into a city of outrageous traffic when I hadn't been driving regularly for over two years was too daunting. And the fact that I hadn't driven stick shift in nearly four years didn't help either, especially after watching T struggle with the car's bad clutch to get it out of our tiny garage full of strange angles. I feel the need to add here that T is a very, very good driver.

But you reach a point where enough is enough and you realise that today's as good a day to dent your boyfriend's company car as ever there will be. I had T get me out of the garage and from there I took it on my own. (I also feel the need to point out that even though T had never seen me drive, he let me, in a twisted knot of nerves, take off on my own with his company-issued car. You be the judge.)

There are some things you never forget. Apparently, driving is one of them. Behind the wheel again, I felt at home in Cotonou like I never expected. Since that night I've been zipping around the city - including in and out of our garage - on my own quite a bit. The other afternoon I went for a drive around some of the busiest parts of the city and encountered some of the worst traffic I have seen here yet. Traffic jams and road construction forced me to take alternative routes, but my mental map of the city must be finally taking shape because I never felt lost or concerned that I wouldn't make it back.

And in Cotonou traffic, you don't have time to be too worried about where you're going. The roads are full of obstacles to avoid: giant potholes and puddles, trash, beggars, people selling odds and ends, old tires, and stray cement blocks. Thousands of mopeds crowd the streets, dashing in and out and around you all the time, often with whole families - including infant babies - piled onto one bike. And of course no one wears a helmet. Zems, or moped taxis, are the craziest. The only thing worse than driving a car surrounded by zems, is being on the back of one.

But all in all, driving in Benin becomes much easier once you completely accept that the only rule of the road here is that there are no rules. If someone were to ask me on which side of the road the Beninese drive I would have to reply, "Well, it depends on the situation." Technically, people are supposed to drive to the right, but this doesn't appear to be as mandatory as it is most elsewhere. Traffic lights are few and far between, and more than half of the existing ones aren't functioning. So intersections operate on the only rule I've been able to identify: the rule of bigger. As in, "I'm bigger than you, so it's in your interest to avoid crashing into me." It seems to work most of the time, though it makes me wish we had a bigger car.

We've currently got a well-worn Peugeot 406 sedan that, in my non-expert opinion, probably needs a new clutch. At the very least I'm quite positive that it needs a new battery. Yesterday morning, I awoke to find that the car wouldn't start. Luckily, or maybe not, the driver was here anyway to clean the car. So he used another company car to jump start it and then he sent me on my way to the horse stables after a short protest from myself. As I hadn't left the lights on or anything like that the night before, and over the past few days I had noticed that the car was suspiciously lacking power in first gear (pedal to the metal and still hardly any movement), I was certain that a new battery was in order. But, as I was already late and I knew there'd be jumper cables in the back, I drove off without much fuss. Good thing I had those cables, because less than two hours later, on my way back from the stables, it wouldn't start again. It took two jump-starts and a friend in pick-up truck following me to get home, but I made it. Needless to say my plans to go to the neighbouring city of Porto-Novo with a friend that afternoon were cancelled.

And just like that, my new-found freedom was gone and I'm back to riding zems for awhile. Boy, do wish I had a helmet.

First Day of School

Volunteering at the children's center was an experience. The children are great and the center itself is new and much nicer than I was expecting. But I won't be starting there any time too soon. I just don't have enough French for it yet. None of the staff there speaks any English, and I'm pathetically behind where I ought to be with my French considering I've been here for a month and a half now.

But all that's about to change as I've started lessons with a teacher today. She's great and her prices are too so I'm able to afford 6 hours of private lessons a week. Getting myself set up with a real teacher hasn't been an easy task and I feel lucky that I happened across her. Another two months down the road and I'll be well on my way. Then maybe I can start helping out with the children.

The center is a temporary stop for kids whose families, for one reason or another, just can't care for them at the moment. Many are refugees whose families are having difficulty getting settled. Some have lost their parents to disease. Others are victims of abuse, and a few were abandoned all together for reasons westerners might find difficult to understand. One boy at the center was expelled from his village because his top baby teeth came through before his lower ones, a very bad sign of misfortune.

Most of the children are between 3 and 10 years old, with a few younger and a few older. The daily schedule consists of two baths, lunch, nap time, afternoon snack, and down time in between. It's up to whoever is helping out that day to fill up all those empty spaces with activities. And that's precisely why I need more French. I'm great at swinging the little ones by their ankles, scooping rice and beans into bowls, painting faces and sculpting little animals from modelling clay (I practically filled Noah's ark with all the requests I got). But if I had to get a kid to follow directions and behave, or if I were left to lead a large activity - as I most certainly would be - I'd be up a creak without a paddle.

So it's back to the ABC's for me and then, when I'm ready, kindergarten.

Yovo! Yovo! Bonsoir, ca-va, ca-va bien merci!

Just looking at this photo I can almost hear them singing, "Yovo! Yovo! Bonsoir, ca-va, ca-va bien merci!"
Yovo means foreigner in Fon, the dominant local language in Southern Benin, and children giggle and shout to all the yovos they see, running up to touch the funny white people and be photographed. And their shrieks and laughter triple when you show them their image on the tiny screen of your digital camera.


This little song is still ringing in my ears from our trip to Ouidah weeks ago; after I volunteer at a children's center tomorrow, I'm sure it will be etched into my eardrums forever. One of the girls I've been travelling with volunteers at the center and, though she's leaving for home on Sunday, she's introducing me to the center so that I can get more involved here.

I can't wait. It will be a way into the culture and reality of this strange country, a contribution I can be proud of, a new network of friends and contacts, a place to practice my French in action, and not least of all, a welcome break from my thesis a couple of days each week.

Besides, Beninese children are about as cute as they come!

If Only I Could Blame It on the Internet

Sure, the internet hasn't been incredibly stable this past week, but I'd be lying if I said that was the main reason I disappeared from wickedsure. Last week I tried to buckle down and get some work done, and that meant that distractions and luxuries, like blogging, got side-lined. Of course, I got hardly anything done except for inspiring a small handful of emails from concerned parties wondering what had happened to me. So, having tested and proven invalid the hypothesis that without blogging as a procrastination technique I would be far more productive, I can return to writing regularly with only a fraction of the guilt I felt before.

But before I pick up where I left off, I need a little nap. I guess I just need a little more procrastination from my procrastinating ;)

Happy in Haie Vive

Last week in Northern Benin was amazing, but after a week of cold showers, bread containing more sand than flour, nights without electricity, and the almost patronizing intensity of Beninese hospitality, I'm so happy to be home. I have a whole new appreciation for our very Western neighbourhood of Haie Vive. It's good to be home.

But before I get into the stories of the North, I've got to finish with the South, and there's so much to tell! I've begun by updating my last post and if you're interested in a little bit of Voodoo magic, it just might be entertaining ;)

Trees of a Sacred Forest

I promised pictures, and unfortunately that's all I've got. I had written out a nice, lengthy blog but somehow it didn't get saved properly on blogger. In about five minutes I'm leaving for the bus station for a week in the North so I can't write now, but when I get back there will be explanations for these photos and many more to add. For now, let's just say that tree is a king, I got to see a Voodoo ceremony and meet a King in human form crowned with a lampshade topped with a plastic ducky :)

Update: Here are those explanations!

Once upon a time in West Africa, there was a small kingdom of people called the Xweda. Unfortunately for the Xweda, their neighbours were the ruthless people of Dahomey, whose king followed a strict policy of expansionism and employed Amazons as his personal bodyguards. So, naturally, when the Xweda got wind that the Dahomey were marching their way, their king, King Kpasse, did what all sensible leaders would do in such a situation; he ran into the forest and turned himself into a tree. Sensible indeed. The Dahomey were fooled by his disguise, though I doubt this helped the rest of the Xweda, and King Kpasse still stands in the sacred forest that bears his name. That's him above, standing in the middle of the ruins of his home in the sacred forest. He could have fooled me.

But the sacred forest is home to more than just leafy, old kings. Statues of Voodoo deities loom everywhere. Meet the god of smallpox, to the right. I guess you appeal to him if you've got enemies. Voodoo does have its component of evil after all and it's not difficult to see where Hollywood got its inspiration for the fictional Voodoo doll. The only dolls here are carried by those who have lost a twin (there are lots of twins born here) representing their dead sibling. They must carry these dolls until they die and when they do it is said that they have gone to the sacred forest to look for their lost twins.

After meeting a number of deities, including our guide's personal protector, the god of thunder, we found a comfy bench and waited for the afternoon's Voodoo celebrations to begin. Luckily for us, we happened to be in Ouidah on a very special day in its history, July 14th. Again, a tree was involved.





























The story goes, one night a man from Ouidah had a dream in which two leopards told him that he was meant to be king. And he believed them. Unfortunately, the current king of Ouidah did not. On July 14th, 1985 they were arguing for the throne in the Sacred Forest of Kpasse when a storm blew in suddenly and unexpectedly. It was so strong that the giant tree next to the temple was torn from its roots and fell over, postponing their bickering.

Exactly one month later, on July 14th, 1985, the men returned to the forest to pick up where they left off. Another, even greater storm, interrupted them yet again and this time the winds and rain were so violent they were forced to lie on the ground. When the strange weather had passed, they stood up to find the tree by the temple had righted itself as though nothing had ever happened. It was clearly a sign from the gods and so the lamp-shade crown, complete with plastic birdy, was passed on to King Kpassenon, sitting on his throne in front of the temple in the photo above. Kind of reminds me of that story about the emperor's new clothes...

And so we waited for the celebrations of the King's coronation to begin. And we waited. And we waited some more. Even the children had run out of games to entertain themselves with. But finally, all the metal folding chairs were in place and a line of women came dancing in, literally.
Most of the real action involved mixing crushed seeds and gin in little bowls, a bit of singing, and a whole lot of kneeling in front of the king. The real stuff was happening inside the temple so we couldn't see much, but there definitely weren't any animal sacrifices or people in trance. Not sure whether I'm more disappointed or relieved about that. And as you can see from the photo above, we weren't the only one's eager to get a peek at the action, though we were all surprised at how relaxed the ceremony was.

It was so relaxed in fact that the three of us westerners weren't sure when the festivities had officially begun and officially ended. Throughout the entire affair, those in the audience chatted to their friends, ate snacks, and even got up to purchase snacks from little stands set up in the forest especially for the event. The last 45 minutes or so lingered on as a man from the national television news interviewed the king and nearly every priest (there's a priest for every deity) on the stage. And after he interviewed us! My lack of any significant French language abilities saved me, but one of the other girls had to tell the nation what she thought of their traditions and beliefs. Talk about being in a tight spot.

Small-town Africa Here I Come, Ouidah, Ouidah

I'm very excited; I finally get to see some countryside. This afternoon I'll be leaving for a small city about 40 km west of Cotonou called Ouidah. A few American interns I've met here have arranged it. I'll tell you all about the Python Temple and the Gate of No Return tomorrow night, when I get back. And I'll be sure to take my camera :)

*to the tune of Camptown Races

Hoi've got a lo-ve-ly bunch o' coconuts

...There they are a-standin' in a row. Big ones, small ones, some as big as yer 'ead! *



Two green coconuts, and a dry - for those who, like me, also didn't know the difference. When you shake the dry ones, you can hear the water inside, but for some reason this doesn't work with the soft, green coconuts. Another mystery.

*http://www.metrolyrics.com/lyrics/49977/Monty_Python/I've_Got_A_Lovely_Bunch_Of_Coconuts/ for full lyrics

GUARD #1: You've got two empty halves of coconut and you're bangin' 'em together. ARTHUR: So?

Yesterday I made what will probably be one of my last big weekly trips to the market with Elisabeth. When we go to Ganhi, the smaller of the city's two big markets, every street vendor carrying sunglasses, flip-flops, desk lamps, kittens, etc. comes running for us. This makes my presence a real burden when we already have to buy a week's worth of food in the crowded stalls. And I have a tendency to inflate prices. Elisabeth is put in the awkward position of negotiating for the best deal with a "rich" person beside her. Plus I feel absolutely awful about haggling in the first place.

In fact, sometimes there's no deal at all. Take, for example, the pineapples. Elisabeth had warned me that the pineapple lady might not want to sell the pineapples to us if she saw me (she's actually a pineapple wholesaler so she sells at a lower price than in the market and she's rather particular about who she sells to). So I tried to duck down in the back seat of the car as we drove up to the stand. It didn't work. Elisabeth had to call the lady's younger sister (I guess they are friends and that is why Elisabeth can buy wholesale pineapples in the first place) and come back by herself today to get them.

For these reasons I've been kindly asked to stay home on market day. I'll still make it out to the markets, just not to do the weekly food stocking. And then there's all the things that we get at the regular supermarkets that I can still buy myself. Cornflakes, milk and that sort of thing. There are a number of small supermarkets in the neighbourhood and everywhere else for that matter. The selection isn't like Whole Foods or Hannaford (USA), or even Bilka or Føtex (DK), but I will say that it's better than your average American "Mom & Pop" grocer, or Netto or Aldi in Denmark. All in all, finding things in Cotonou has been much easier than finding things in Copenhagen. Very counter-intuitive. Oh, another funny thing: yesterday when we were at a rather nice supermarket, we had to wait a little extra longer at the cheese counter. The reason: we were in line behind the Beninese President's wife, and no one rushes her. My first brush with celebrity in Africa.

But we got everything we needed and now we have a nice pile of pineapples to top it off - as you can see above. Now every morning we can rotate between freshly squeezed orange juice and pineapple juice. We also picked up a "green" coconut on the way home so that T and I could try the milk. Very tasty. I wonder about the fat content of that beverage though. Isn't coconut milk supposed to be very fatty and bad for you? Or is that just the milk of the "dry" coconuts? I just learned the difference between the two yesterday so I obviously don't know much, but Elisabeth told me that the milk is supposed to be very good for your stomach. Well, as long as you don't combine it with yoghurt that is. A few minutes after finishing my glass, she came running back to me to say that she forgot to warn me about it's interaction with yoghurt. Apparently the combination leads to frequent and inescapable trips to the loo. So now I'm trying to figure out if we should put coconut milk into our morning rotation (but not on mornings we eat yoghurt!), or avoid it like a heart attack. Are there any health-nuts out there who can help clear up all these coconut rumours and provide some scientifically-based advice? For all I know, the people I'm listening to could be suggesting that coconuts migrate ;) Well, we do have African swallows here...

*Monty Python and the Holy Grail

If I Could Turn Back Time

... I would study French in high school instead of Spanish. Amazing how much I'm realizing I actually do remember. Amazing and unhelpful.

Beach Bums

Again, you'll have to forgive my inability to blog regularly. Random, prolonged internet-access failure is unavoidable. And it won't be a one time occurrence, but rather a regular fact of life in this new landscape. I've come to terms with this; I hope that you, my readers, will do the same and not abandon me.
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So what did I do during my time "away"? Besides the usual struggle to learn French, stay awake reading Castells, and put words on paper, I went to the beach. Wow. Words - at least my words - are simply inadequate to describe such an experience. I think the only words I did come up with were, "Why is my camera at home? Next week. No. Tomorrow. Can we come back tomorrow?"
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I thought I had it good living in Copenhagen with my 15 minute bicycle ride to the "beach" but I had no idea. Notice the quotes. There's a reason for that. Amager strand (aka the city's beach) is a very new pile of sand, rocky sand at that, dumped on the shore by sun-deprived Scandinavians. And I can't blame them. The Danish coast - and there's lots of it - boasts some nice patches of sand but none very close to the capital. Mind you I mean close in Danish terms, where family members that live 3 hours away might as well be in, say, Africa. Oh how New Hampshire of me to be measuring distance in hours, I know.
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Anyway, my point was that up until now I was pretty happy to have once lived 15 minutes from Amager strand, even if Gondul's photos of her Queensland home town's coastline did inspire more than a little jealousy. But this was before I lived in Cotonou. After a mere 20 minutes of bumps and bounces that would have greatly impressed my old school bus buddies, you're far away from all the hustle, bustle, and pollution of the city. Your new surroundings ooze R&R: fine sand, big waves, coconut trees, cushioned lounge chairs.
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But don't expect a little pink umbrella in your drink. In fact, don't expect a drink at all. Life's easier without expectations. For example, maybe you'll get a waiter's attention, maybe you won't. Maybe they'll have what you ordered, maybe they won't. Maybe the waiter will remember to tell you that they don't have any more of what you ordered, and maybe he won't. And if you're really lucky, maybe the waiter will remember that you once upon a time ordered something at all, and then again maybe he won't. You get the idea. At least you don't have to pay upfront.
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It's not that these places are crowded - though I'm sure that sometimes they are - it's just that everything already moves at "African pace" (I think the heat has something to do with this) and that, coupled with the R&R atmosphere inherent to the beach, means there's never, ever any hurry. Personally, I don't find this so irritating, but I can understand how years of such service can make even the most patient expats here a little frustrated. A well-run beach side restaurant providing lounge chairs with adequate shade would be a goldmine.
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Because we made our little trip on Sunday we haven't had time to return, so no pictures yet. But don't worry, I'll definitely be going back. If you're impatient, you can check out the website of the restaurant/resort we went to at http://jardin-helvetia.com/. They have a few pictures online, though none really of the beach itself.

Cosy with Castells

It's been nearly a week since the guys left and I think it's justified for me to start feeling a little lonely now. A text message this morning from T saying he'd be home tomorrow made me so giddy I'm still embarrassed for myself. Must remember not to jump on him in the doorway when he arrives. The poor man hasn't had a moment for himself since we got here.

Loneliness is not the same as boredom, even if many people let one lead to the other. I am not bored. Creating a list of things to do has never been a problem for me. The challenge is checking things off that list. For some reason I feel like this entire week was robbed from me. I didn't seem to get anything I planned to do done.

Robbed I tell you, first by the movers who never came, then by the inertia of heat and humidity, then by a house that seems to require daily visits from the electrician and plumber, and finally - worst of all - by one Manuel Castells and his Network Society. T, come home quickly; I'm spending all my time with another man.

Ready? Drum Roll Please...

So finally, here they are: the promised photos, sure to disappoint, but posted nevertheless. The movers still haven't shown, but things are nearly in order now because I broke down and moved all the stuff they were supposed to pick up into what we charitably call the dining room. It's not as though we'll be eating there any time soon anyway; we have no table. Maybe, if we're lucky, we can snag one from someone who's leaving in September.

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But back to the stuff you really want to know. We'll start with the view from the balcony:

As you can see, we've got lots of palm trees. The thing about palm trees is that even when the wind is hardly blowing their tops swing back and forth outside your bedroom window with such ferocity that it gives you the impression that there's a hurricane in the making. I suspect this might just be my personal bias though, as most of the palm trees I've seen in my life, until now, have been on Weather Channel special news reports. Now, if you look closely you can make out a few of our neighbours in between the palm trees (click on the photos to get to larger versions).

This is the living room, followed by the bedroom and the study. Got to love the bars on the windows. If the wall surrounding the building (can be seen in views from balcony) complete with guards didn't already do it, this last finishing touch really drives home the prison analogy. The really funny thing though, is that none of those windows or the sliding door are ever locked. Ah, the appearance of safety. I also like how the bars reflect onto the framed lion photograph hanging above the bed to make it look like a zoo animal.

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As you can see, our place is a bit empty at the moment and would benefit greatly from some real artwork. Not that I don't love the lion (a leftover from the former tenant), I just think he's better suited for a game room or a bar than above my bed. I'm hoping that maybe I can convince my artist sister to send me some of her paintings. I'll have to do it fast though. Judging by the way her work is starting to sell I won't be able to afford it before long.

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Well, I should go now. The water isn't working so I've got to call the plombier. Too bad that's the only plumbing-related word of French I know. This should be interesting...

Happy 4th on the 3rd! and the Fine Art of Schmoozing

Just got back from a 4th of July celebration at the American Embassy. Do I need to explain the significance of the 4th of July for my non-American readers? American Independence Day. Usually involves BBQ, fireworks, loud music (preferably country-western if you can handle it), parades, and all things stereotypically American. In the words of a long-time family friend, "A great day to be an American".

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Yes, I am very aware that it's not the 4th today, but the 3rd of July. I guess the people at the embassy wanted the whole day off, and who can blame them. But I have to say no Independence Day celebration has ever crept up on me quite like this one did. Someone at T's office had mentioned it to me last week and said that he might be able to get me an invitation; I guess the event is rather limited in number. It didn't seem likely and when I didn't hear anything more about it I assumed that he wasn't able to work it out. But then, around quarter to six tonight I got a phone call informing me that someone would be by to pick me up at half past six to take me to the event. Oops.

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With no plans about what to wear, no running water, greasy hair, and a bad case of garlic breath, I was feeling rather short on time. Now, dressing for such an event is always a tricky business - unless you're male, naturally, in which case 1: you probably don't really care that much how you look, and 2: you can just throw on a suit and look acceptable for nearly all occasions. But dressing for such an event when you're female and you've just moved to Africa and left a fair deal of your clothes behind is particularly difficult. And to top it off, you're in Africa. Even if you had all of your clothes you still couldn't find anything resembling what most everyone else will be wearing. So, to recap: short on time and no idea what to wear. Solution: basic black dress. Too bad mine was freshly wrinkled, straight from the suitcase.

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Luckily, Elisabeth saved my rear by ironing the dress for me (I would do it myself but I have no idea where the ironing board is and I think she wants to keep it that way... ) and the water magically turned back on just in time for me to brush my teeth six times and take a quick shower. I swear I have an angel.

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The reception was nice enough. Most of the people there were not American, though. In fact, the majority were local, which, I think, is a good thing, even if it did mean that my black dress was a little out of place in the sea of bright-coloured, wrap-around prints. There was a live band playing a rather odd selection of music, but decent nevertheless. No dancing, though. Red, white and blue everything, of course. Burgers, hot dogs, corn on the cob, baked beans, chicken wings and a flag cake. Oh, and ice cream. And mosquitoes. Lots of mosquitoes. In my rush to get out the door, bug-spray didn't factor in. Itch, scratch, itch, scratch. Good thing I'm still taking the malaria meds.

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In terms of networking, it was the place for me to be. I'm sure I would have met all these people at one point or another, but in this case sooner is better than later. Whether or not some form of interesting employment here is in my future remains to be seen, but at least my network of friends is sure to benefit from tonight's appearance. One thing is for certain, though. I need to work on my schmoozing skills.

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Schmoozing: v. int. To converse casually, especially in order to gain an advantage or make a social connection. Don't believe me? http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/schmooze. So now that we've cleared that up, any suggestions on how to improve my skills? How about significant schmoozing stories of your own? Anyone? Please? Desperately seeking help here.

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In other news, I haven't forgotten about the photos of the flat. It's still not put together because the movers never came. They were supposed to come on Friday afternoon. And then it was moved to sometime yesterday when they failed to show. And now another day has passed and I've given up hope. The rumour here is that if you need something done you need to know the people personally or it takes forever. Seems right so far.

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And sorry for all the "-"s between paragraphs. Something's up with the formatting on blogger. Can't get it to work right any other way.

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*Photo from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/barrypeterson/181644402/

P.S.

Mangos are delicious! Also, people really do carry things around on their heads. Anything, and all the time.

Dog Plays Dead in "Living" Room

So I had my camera out in preparation for finally taking some photos tonight - though it looks like it'll be tomorrow now... sorry - and I remembered that I had a few pictures that I took when I was State-side last that still needed to be uploaded. This was one of them. There is, indeed, a reason for posting this photo (other than the fact that I love my dog and can never have enough photos of her). It's a tribute to my Keene NH home, to which, I've just recently learned, my parents will - for sure now - be saying their farewells.

The above photo, taken just a few minutes before I left for the airport, was one of my last glances at what will no longer be my parents' living room. Next time I come "home" this is what I'll see instead (with a few additions, as in a house, I hope!):

Goodbye Keene; hello Westmoreland!

A Place for Everything, and Everything in Its Place

The guys left again last night, this time for a week in South Africa. T's colleague will be flying straight home to Denmark from there, so from now on it will be just us. It was, as always, a sad parting; Elisabeth was nearly in tears after saying her final goodbyes. For the record, tears make me uncomfortable. Tears from people I don't know very well yet make me very uncomfortable. But it was also a relief as now we're free to settle into our own, new routine. And I fully intend to do so.

And I fully intend to start by rearranging the flat. With T gone until Saturday, Elisabeth and I are more than keeping busy moving things from here to there, and then back, and then from here to over there, and so on. One of the first places to get the major overhaul is the kitchen. "Complete lack of storage space" pretty much sums up the situation in there. Actually, maybe if you added the phrase "ant infestation" to that it would be a more comprehensive description. We're going to have to buy some tight sealing Tupperware.

But getting this flat in order is going to be more than a one day project. In fact, it will probably be September before everything is in place. We have no dining table or chairs, no guest bed, nothing on the walls, no plants, etc. What we do have, and in abundance, is empty space. Photographs of said empty space will be posted tomorrow, when the junk heaps growing in every corner have been redistributed evenly across all rooms.

So why am I wasting my time blogging? you ask. Simple, at the moment we're knee-deep in a case of "we can't to this until that is done first". And, in this case, "that" means waiting for the movers to come and pick up T's colleague's stuff. But every once in a while the plumber shows up to give us a quote on fixing the kitchen sink, or some such thing, to break up the monotony.

A Dazzling Ride

It's Saturday evening and I've just returned home from the horse club. I still smell like a barn animal, but I've decided to write a little before I take a long, well-earned bath. I need to tell you about the horses. For those uninterested in these, the most beautiful animals in the world, don't waste your time reading any further.

The stable is, essentially, right on the beach. A 5 minute ride and you've got your hooves in waves. Last Tuesday I had a more formal lesson and we stayed within the boundaries of the makeshift, beach football field near the stable. Today, we rode along the shore. A game was on.

It was beautiful and strange. The section of beach just in front of the stable is, coincidently, also just in front of a hotel and therefore clean and clear of debris. Ride a little further in either direction and the same cannot be said. Plastic bottles, tiny pieces of plastic bottles, syringes, flip-flops, and trash, trash, trash litter the sand. Some areas are more polluted than others, but it was a disturbing sight nevertheless as I thought about our horses' unshod feet kicking up sand and whatever happened to be in it. Near one particularly dirty area, we had to turn back and change direction because a man up ahead was burning a pile of trash. Horses don't like flames, and I got to see how skill full my fellow riders are. Impressive. Yet, somehow, it was all still beautiful. Truth be told, much of the beach is mostly clean and undisturbed.

I've never really ridden in a straight line before. I'm sure this seems very silly to those who don't ride horses, but those that do, or have, will probably understand what I mean by this. Let me explain: a large part of the riding done in the equestrian world is confined to circular or oval shaped arenas where horse and rider go around, and around, and around. There are those lucky enough to ride trails regularly or go on "hunts". For the most part, I didn't fall into this second category, and even when I did, the narrow and windy dirt roads/trails that run through New England forests don't provide great opportunities for long, hard gallops.

But today, there was just sand and water. And a non-stop gallop along the shore. I'm hooked.

Q: When Does 3 + 0 = 0?

A: When you've got the following scenario: 3 days + 0 internet = 0 new posts.

Don't we just love the rainy season? No, I didn't forget or get lazy; I got frustrated instead. Due to large volumes of water falling from the sky over the past few days, Cotonou went temporarily wireless. But not the good kind of wireless, like what you find in pricey cafés, but quite the bad kind of wireless, as in, absolutely no internet connection at all. This also meant absolutely no new blogging at all. For this I am very sorry.

For those worried about the lack of communication (aka my parents), don't distress. All is well. Wet maybe, but well. Actually, it's not even that wet. This certainly hasn't been the kind of rain that would knock out power and internet capabilities in many other places I've lived. Nor is it of an intensity that would be foreign to those places either. I guess it's just testament to the fragility of an infrastructure about as flimsy as the woven-reed homes along the beach. Come to think about it, I wonder if they withstood the rain?

Now, normally a few hours without the internet makes me about as happy as a claustrophobe in the metro at rush hour, but I've got so many things that have to be done I hardly had time to notice. With a thesis to write, a language to learn and a city to explore, I some how managed.

Truthfully, I more than managed. Let me just say the pool at the Marina Hotel is a worthy place to swim laps in the morning. And C's been more than helpful in getting me settled by connecting me with a German friend who's involved in a local equestrian club. And now, so am I.

I want to post this message now, just in case this is only the "eye" of the poor-internet-connection storm. If the forces that be keep me connected through the night, expect details soon. Do you think there's a voodoo spirit for telecommunications? Where can I find a talisman?

Keeping Busy

C's been keeping me pretty busy. Last night we went to a restaurant down on the beach for a drink. It was a German place with the long beer list you'd expect from such a place. Too bad the beers only exist on the menu. But the atmosphere couldn't have been much better. A Friday night, but far from crowded, we sat on the edge of the patio for an unobstructed view of the waves. Big waves. Much larger than I am used to seeing. As the sun began to set a live band took the stage behind us. We didn't stay long after that, but I made a mental note to remember the place.

Today we went with another expat here to a local carpenter to commission a dining room table. You can have beautiful hardwood furniture custom made. It's not super cheap, but something of equivalent, hand-made quality would go for a good penny more in Europe, and it wouldn't be custom built exactly the way you want it.

The workshop was located on a run-down dirt street and was spread out in a number of small buildings constructed in the typical rotting wood and flimsy metal manner. On closer inspection, the large bar expertly crafted from afzelia standing in the road gave the place away, as did the beautiful teak and afzelia doors leading to a crowded showroom. The master carpenter showed us beautiful chairs, coffee tables, cabinets, and shelves, explaining the techniques they use to ensure that the furniture will not warp or crack in drier climates and displaying the high-quality hardware they make sure to use. Apparently using cheap hinges and wet wood are common mistakes made by many local carpenters.

After seeing the workroom, where a staff of about 10 people were busy sawing, sanding and polishing, our friend handed the carpenter a set of drawings she had made and explained her hopes for a new dining room table. In 6 months she will have a beautiful wood and glass table. If she didn't have to worry about drying the wood really well first to take the table back to Europe she could have had it in 2 to 3. I made sure to get this man's card before we left. T had mentioned something about being interested in finding some nice furniture here.

Sweet Dreams

Just had the wind knocked out of me by a lizard. Had heard stories about how they run around inside others' houses and how they used to be in our flat before the last time it was routinely sprayed for insects. Apparently there were quite a lot of them always running across the walls. Looks like they've returned.

I was on my way to bed (mind you, I'm alone in this place now) and as I was closing the bedroom door, a lizard about the size of a large salamander made a mad dash across the wall from near the door hinges. I nearly screamed. Thought it was a spider. Talk about a sigh of relief when I realized it wasn't. Just a cute little pale yellow lizard instead, probably just a baby. Not sure where he is now, or I would have taken a picture of him. But he's got to be somewhere in the bedroom with me as I've shut the door. I like him. He'll keep me company when I'm alone. I hope he brings friends. We'll have our own little party. Besides, lizards eat mosquitoes... and I like to think spiders as well :)

On My Own... Well, Almost

T and his colleague left for a trip through Niger this morning. They'll be gone until Sunday evening, so I thought I'd be on my own for the next few days, something I felt both sad and a little relieved about. Now I'd be able to really focus on learning French without the mandatory 2 hour lunch break from 13.00 to 15.00 when the guys come home, a relic from Benin's communist past. And I'd have the flat totally to myself in the evenings, a welcomed opportunity to get comfortable here and start feeling at home by sprawling out on the living room couch and watching chick flicks.

But it turns out that this isn't exactly the case. Instead, I spent the day with the wife of another man at the office, C. Actually, she works there too but has taken the next few days as holiday. C and her husband ate dinner with us last night (we had the Danish-style roast pork Elisabeth makes and that we've been hearing so much about), and she invited me to spend today with her. First we took a walk around the neighbourhood. After having lunch at her place we went for a drive around the city and she took me to two of the best stores in town for getting general household items. I got myself a pillow. This was the triumph of the day. The pillows we've been using are overstuffed so that they are at least twice as full as they should be and as dense and hard as a sack of pebbles. And C knows a man who makes shoes. Custom. She's clearly a good person to know ;)

Elisabeth is also still here. She is wonderful. It's very, very strange having someone wait on you and clean the house while you're still there. I don't like it at all. But I'm doing my best to get used to it and we're working out a good friendship/business balance in our relationship. And I know at least one French lady who will be very happy to know that she's helping me learn French. As soon as I have enough of the basics down (hopefully about 2 weeks from now) she will speak only French to me as often as we can afford to not totally understand one another. She helped the man who lived here before us in this way and is very enthusiastic about it. And she's given me some educational materials and has offered to help read them to me so that I get the pronunciation down. If I manage to pull off a life down here, it will be in large part due to her.

I've been plugging away at the few Pimsleur tapes I bought and I know enough now to say hello, thank you, goodbye and tell people that I can't understand them. Hardly enough to really even get by, but I've just found another good resource, free FSI French developed by the U.S. government from http://www.fsi-language-courses.com/French.aspx. They also have courses for a whole bunch of other languages if you're interested and I've heard they are really effective, if a little dry. I plan to finish the Pimsleur introduction and then combine the FSI course and the free online Rosetta Stone course offered by the Keene Public Library for my self study. Four to six hours of that every day combined with practising with Elisabeth and maybe two hours of private lessons a week with a qualified teacher here and I ought to be able to do this. I will do this.

Day 2

If this is the rainy season, then the dry season must be very dry. It hasn't rained since I've been here, even though the forecast from weather.com predicted scattered thunder-storms with a 60% chance of rain both yesterday and today. On closer inspection, one notices that scattered thunderstorms and a 60% chance of rain is the forecast for everyday this week and next. In fact, I seem to remember this same prediction every time I checked the weather these past few weeks as I was preparing for this big adventure. I wonder if they actually even bother to have meteorologists looking at satellite reports or if they just have two, seasonally changing forecasts they post. Not that I'm complaining that it's not raining. It rained enough in New Hampshire and Copenhagen to keep me satisfied for the moment. But I could use a good thunder-storm. And I hear they are good here.

Last night, T's colleague took us for a drive to the beach. We actually live very close to the beach; I think one could probably walk there if one wasn't in a hurry, but the stretch closest to us isn't very nice and not the safest either. So we continued along the coast about 20 or 25 minutes down the road to a nicer/safer area. Now when I say that we drove for nearly half an hour to get to the "real" beach it might sound a long distance away. Not at all. It's just that the chickens in the road, the goats in the road, and - most of all - the potholes in the road mean that while the dirt path may be straight, you certainly aren't travelling in a straight line.

But I didn't mind. When there is so much to see along the way, it's not so bad to take one's time. I decided not to take any pictures during these first few journeys, as I'm not yet sure where it is and isn't a good idea to be flashing around one's new, shiny, expensive, and probably impossible-to-get-in-Benin digital camera. So please be patient with me. Photos will come. Eventually. And they'll be worth it.

The dirt road that runs parallel to the beach is lined with homes along each side. Small bars and dense, wide patches of cacti pop up here and there. A few large, grey, and probably once grandiose buildings loom a little further inland, behind the row of homes. This may be beach-front property, but the Big Bad Wolf wouldn't even have to huff 'n puff to blow these houses down. At best, the "homes" are made of crudely layed cement blocks. Many are mainly sheets of rippled metal and woven reeds. Some seem to be entirely constructed of reeds. Voodoo charms are nailed over the doors. Some are painted like shop windows with pictures of people holding dangling snakes and other charms; I'm guessing these are the home of voodoo priests. Our own talisman hangs from the rear-view mirror of our Peugeot- a little extra safety, courtesy of our driver.

Lizards cling to the side of buildings. Naked children chase each other in circles. Women walk along the road's edge with large baskets balanced on their heads. Young men sit under the shade of a lean-to, taking a break from the battle between their motorbikes and the potholes. People stare into our car as we pass and I wonder how tinted the windows are. Not really tinted at all, and it shows on their ever so slightly interested faces. I wonder what they think of us, white expats who drive straight through their lives to the nicest spot of beach. I am embarrassed. I wish I was walking like so many others. But I know that me walking would not make us any more alike. I think I am being silly and force the feeling to pass.

The sun is going down and we still have to pick up some food from the largest grocery store in Cotonou and see "the club" at Marina Hotel, so we never make it out of the car. On our way back I notice a dog lying curled up on the side of the road in front of what looks like a shop. It's a sandy-coloured reddish-brown and with long wiry hairs on the back of its neck. Fuzzy, teddy-bear ears poke up from a short, square face. Hyena? Some kind of cross? No idea.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

I made it! I'm in Africa. Now how to describe this? Hmm...

Well, from the moment I stepped out of the airport last night, I've sort of felt like I've been meandering through a sound stage for a film. All the actors are in costume and giving Oscar-winning performances, even if most are only extras. It's all like a continuous movie that's constantly playing outside my bedroom window, or the car window, or the windows that are my eyes. Very real, but very surreal at the same time.

This is not to say that it's like Blood Diamond, or The Last King of Scotland - surprise, surprise - as I'm not smuggling diamonds or getting up-close and friendly with any crazy politicians. But the scenery and the people around me really do look like something out of a movie. I woke up this morning to the crowing of the rooster that lives in our street (no, not a typo. I do mean in our street, not on), and I opened my eyes to see the tops of palm trees silhouetted against the pink, dawn sky.

We live in the nicest neighbourhood in the city. And our flat is, by all accounts, nice. Not nice considering we're in Africa, but genuinely, truly, nice. I suppose if we we're living in Monaco we'd have reason to be disappointed, but this is far, far more than sufficient. And we'll probably eventually move into an even more "sufficient" house, because two bedrooms, a living room, balcony, kitchen, dinning room, full bath (with tub), half bath (with shower), additional toilet (I think this is supposed to be for the staff, aka our cook/housekeeper Elisabeth, who I feel the need to note is a very kind woman indeed), and an extra room (which is currently unused but will probably soon become famous as the place in which I wrote both my ground-breaking, brilliant thesis, and my moving and inspirational first novel) obviously isn't enough for two people. Yeah, right. #Please note sarcasm# Oh yes, and we have air conditioning throughout.

All this is set back from the road by a white fence - a white wall, actually - that is lined by little cacti on the street-side. To get in, you have to be let in by the security guards. Yes, the guards. There are many guards in this neighbourhood, which is probably why I've been told that it's safe to walk around here at all hours of the day and night. They don't seem very busy to me. In fact, I thought I saw a few sleeping.

We're not far from the airport; you can hear the planes land. We're also not far from T's office, the beach, or Marina hotel (where the health club, pool and many expats are located), though I haven't been to these places yet, so I can't say much more about them. Another place nearby is Livingstone - Benin expats' favourite watering-hole. Had a pizza there last night with T and a couple people from his office. I'm sure that this is a place I will grow to know well.

Our neighbours include several embassies, probably most of the rich local people, what I assume is the majority of the Westerners living in Benin, some shack like buildings, many palm trees, a large plot that seems to be used to grow vegetables, and - of course - the rooster and his groupies (aka, the chickens). I'd say more but I haven't gotten a key to our flat yet, so I haven't been able to do much exploring as I'm stuck inside because I'd get locked out if I left alone and T is at the office with one of his colleagues who's staying with us and helping us adjust.

But I'm not alone. Elisabeth has been here most of the day, and while we didn't see each other much this morning (I was unpacking - not a small task - and she was cleaning), she took me with her to the "markets" to buy the food she needed to prepare lunch. I should probably mention that she speaks English, a fact that will make my first few weeks here infinitely easier. "Our" company-issued driver picked up Elisabeth and me in "our" car to take us there. The roads here are unpaved except for a small handful and there are potholes like you've never seen. Puddles you could swim in. How our driver managed to maneuver through these and simultaneously avoid the masses of mopeds and motorbikes whizzing in front, behind and alongside us is a mystery, though I think the secret to his magic is frequent use of the car horn.

First, we stopped at a fish shop, a small, rather typically run-down building in which we bought frozen fish by selecting our catch from a small wooden crate holding a variety of fishes. Around the corner behind the counter where the man showed us the crate and weighed our choice, there must have been a large walk-in freezer containing more fish because another man wearing a thermal suit and a hat kept disappearing and reappearing from that mysterious place. I kept looking at the small crate holding probably 10 fishes in front of us and wondering how many more were back there, out of sight, and how long the frozen little faces peering up at me with glazed eyes had been frozen.

Then we left our purchase with a tiny woman in a dirty, but brightly-coloured sarong/dress thing so that she could clean them while we did the rest of the shopping. We turned a corner and drove a little further on to the market. This is hard to describe. Imagine lots of people in bright fabrics. Lots of mopeds on a busy and wide road. People following you around trying to sell you kitchen knives, pens, sticks of gum. You turn into one of the street-side vendors and make your way down a narrow alley. On both sides, piles of vegetables and fruits guarded by women of all ages. Stacks of toilet paper rolls and sponges. Chickens crowed into Hershey-Kiss-shaped wooden/wicker cages. You feel something grabbing at your arm and you turn your head to see a baby strapped to his mother's back, reaching out to touch your strange skin. This is the market. Apparently not even the big market. That will be an experience for another day. At this point I am very happy to have Elisabeth. I'm generally very much against the whole concept of having hired help. Wash your own dirty socks, thank you. But I am so thankful for her. I could not do this alone.

We returned to the car with mangos, potatoes, limes, cabbage, parsley. We went back for the fish, then stopped at a grocery store. Okay, a grocery store. Now this I can handle. This I could maybe do on my own. Another experience for another day.

Lunch was fabulous.

Goodbye Wonderful Copenhagen

It's my last day in Denmark and it's been raining all day. Wonderful, dreary, Copenhagen. But I'll miss it. And I'll definitely miss all the people I've met here. Most of them are moving on to new things (or will be within a year) so that makes it just a little easier to leave. I know that if I stayed it wouldn't be the same without them. And someday, when I move back to Copenhagen, it won't be the same then either, just like it wasn't the same the first time I returned. It will be a foreign city all over again. It's true, the people make the place.

The strange thing is that I know I am going to miss this place I've called home for the past two years and the friends I have made here, but I don't actually feel very sad about leaving. I guess "goodbye" gets easier every time you say it. Or maybe it's easier because in today's world of skype, cheap flights and email, goodbye really doesn't mean what it used to. At least, I like to think that's the case.

Then again, maybe I've just burned myself out on goodbyes. Take, for example, my recent visit home. My family dog is on her last leg (almost literally). She's 15 years old, or 105 in dog time, so I've been saying my last farewell to her every visit home I've made in the last 3 to 4 years. And my parents are planning to sell their house within the next year - the house my sisters and I grew up in. Now, my parents have been talking about selling the house for years and every time I used to think about it I felt a little bit of sadness and regret that I didn't take a proper look around before I left the last time I was home. But this time I made sure to clean out the things I had been storing at my parent's place these last few years, throwing away old mementos and bad photographs, and when I was bringing my bags out to the car and my mother reminded me to say goodbye to my childhood home I half-heartedly strolled through the rooms, surprised at my own indifference. I gave my dog a hug and told her that I loved her, but for the first time with totally dry eyes. It's not that I wasn't sad, it's just that I wasn't heart-broken by it any more.

And that seems to be how I am dealing with all my goodbyes right now - without the heartbreak. Is it because I've said goodbye so many times that I have no more whole pieces left to break? Am I shallow, cold and unfeeling? Or is it that all the goodbyes have taught me that the story doesn't end just because you've said goodbye, that I am a strong enough person to go through life without the heartbreak. At a goodbye-dinner last night, a good friend who has been to Africa before told me that I'm bound to see people in situations that would break your heart, and see them everyday. I know she's right. And then she told me that she thought I was strong enough to handle it. I hope she's right.

And now I'm off to say a few more goodbyes, so farewell.